


Risking Everything

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gross magical rituals, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:49:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel goes missing after a battle with Raphael, just how far will Dean go to get him home safely again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean has long ago realized that angelic perceptions of time are different from human perceptions, but after Castiel fails to show up again for three weeks, Dean is getting so anxious that Sam has taken to asking him if he wants to – god forbid – talk about it. 

There haven’t been any signs of the other angels, either, and as much as Dean hates having Balthazar around, he’s pretty sure it’s even worse to not know what’s going on upstairs. Since the world hasn’t yet gone up in a fiery ball of destruction, it’s a safe bet that Raphael hasn’t been able to fight her way through Castiel’s apparently impressive arsenal – but if Castiel hasn’t popped down here to give them any good news, then there’s an equal chance that Castiel hasn’t yet been able to go all smitey on Raphael’s ass, and that thought isn’t comforting at all. 

“Dean?”

They’ve given up on Purgatory for the day, having absolutely no leads on this whole ‘mother of all’ nonsense, and Dean isn’t surprised when his brother steps onto Bobby’s front porch. Sammy glances up at the clear sky of stars that hangs up above, before those big concerned puppy eyes take in the scene of Dean sitting on a rickety old chair with a beer in hand, and then his brother sits down beside him with a sigh.

“Nothing?”

“He’s probably fighting. I don’t wanna distract him.”

“He could use the support.”

“He’s an angel, Sam. I think he’ll manage.”

“Well, you could still send him a little prayer –”

“Why don’t you do it, if you’re so damn concerned?”

Dean wants to bite off his damn tongue as Sam stares at him with that patented look of vague disappointment, his face creasing into the all-too-human bitch face that even a year without his soul hadn’t been able to erase. Dean holds on a little tighter to his beer bottle, having this awful feeling that they’re about to have an emotionally draining moment that will probably leave him desperate for more beer.

“There’s nothing wrong with being scared for him, ya know.”

“Sammy –”

“Dean, you only ever get this bitchy when someone we care about is in danger.”

“Yeah, thanks, you can shut up now.”

“And, I mean, weapons of Heaven or not, Raphael’s still a scary bastard –”

“Sam –”

“Hey, I don’t like not being able to do anything to help either, alright? At least demons we could fight, angels, though –”

_“Sam.”_

Sam stops talking at the rough catch to Dean’s voice, and drops his eyes down to the porch. There’s silence for a long moment, and Dean takes a swig of his beer, needing something to do with his mouth and hands while he determinedly does not look up at the sky and wish upon the nearest star for Castiel to suddenly drop in on them.

“How close did you two get, anyway?”

The blunt question has Dean choking on his beer, pain streaking from his nose to his throat to his watering eyes, but even by the time he’s finished coughing and cursing, his little brother still isn’t looking apologetic.

“The fuck, Sammy?”

He tries to pretend his voice isn’t a sputter, but Sammy’s expression is sliding into the one he’d always used whenever he’d talked about Cassie, back when Dean had been so smitten with her – and it’s a look that never spells well for Dean’s manhood and romantic denial.

“I mean – before the Apocalypse started, or back when he was falling, or whenever. He and you –”

“Not having this conversation.”

“So, we can both spend time rotting in Hell, and you’ll sit down for a meal with Death himself – but you won’t talk about how you feel about Cas?”

Dean feels his skin run hot and cold at the same time, realizing exactly how bad that sounds when said out loud. If Sammy’s right, and this is an indication of exactly how uneasy Dean is over the situation with Castiel – well, then, that’s a pretty merciless way to lay it all out there.

“Jesus, Sam,” and if his voice is a little rough again, Dean is just going to keep on ignoring it, and hope that Sam does the same, “Would you let it go already?”

Something way too understanding flashes through Sam’s eyes, and he holds up his hands in the universal signal for surrender. “Sorry, man, I just – I hate to watch you worry about him like this, and I had to ask, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get like this about anyone who wasn’t family.”

“Well, then maybe you shouldn’t pour salt in the wound.”

“You’re acting like he’s never coming back.”

“This goes down one of two ways, Sam. Purgatory, Raphael, whatever – and we all die. Option two, Cas kicks Raphael’s ass and we somehow close Purgatory, and when the world is safe, Cas flaps back off to heaven to be the sheriff, and we never see him again.”

Dean is pretty sure he can feel his teeth grinding together, but the beer has made his tongue too loose, and Sammy’s eyes are holding a ridiculous amount of sentimentality. At this point in their angst-ridden lives, Dean should really be used to these little heart-to-hearts, but there’s still something unsettling about putting his fears out there where someone else can see them.

“Dean, I mean – I’m just guessing, of course, but just – have you seen the way the guy looks at you? You really think he’ll ditch you when this is all over?”

His skin burning at the question, Dean looks away and takes another quick swig of his drink, trying to find some diplomatic way to tell Sammy that Castiel has already done much more than just look at him. Truthfully, there’s probably nothing about this that Sam would have a problem with, but just – talking about it makes real, and Dean misses Castiel a lot less when he pretends that they’ve never been anything more than two people who just happened to have been fighting in the same battle.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy, I know.” Dean keeps his eyes fixed away at the concern in his brother’s voice, suddenly sick of keeping everything cooped up inside, even if it makes things easier to ignore. “I know exactly how he looks at me. And hey, you should see the way he looks at me when I take my clothes off.”

There’s an agonizing silence for about three painful seconds – 

“Oh, god, Dean.”

Sammy is making gagging noises and slamming his hands across his eyes, and Dean feels his lips curve into the first honest smile he can remember in a long time, his entire body warming at how human his brother is acting. By the time Sam has finished trying to scrub out his brain through his eyes, Dean is leaning back in the chair, his hesitant grin morphing into something he knows will come across as cocky and smug.

“Hey, you asked.”

“You didn’t have to put it like _that_.”

Sam is looking almost as pained as the time he’d walked in on Dean with the doublemint twins, and Dean suddenly feels a little bit better about the situation, even if Castiel is still out there somewhere, trying to kick Raphael’s ass.

“What, you thought we never got our act together?”

“Honestly? No, Dean – I didn’t. I figured you wouldn’t be able to get your head around screwing an angel.”

“Anna –”

“Was human.”

Dean shrugs, realizing there's no denying that.

“And, I mean – not even just the angel thing, but since when do you do guys?”

Dean can only shrug again, trying to pretend his face isn’t getting warm enough to hurt, his mind flashing back to some of the more enthusiastic nights he and Cas spent together. “I don’t always pick up women, you know. Just – most of the time.”

“And you didn’t think this was something I should have known?”

“Always figured you’d break out the rainbow stickers and embarrass us both, or something.”

“Fuck you, jackass.”

But Sam is grinning his fool face off, and Dean can’t help but smile back, pleased beyond belief to see that kind of happiness on his brother’s face. After months of waiting for Sammy to stick a knife in his back, the relief of having his brother back is something that never seems to go away, constantly bubbling up inside him and making him want to do something ridiculous – like finding Death and hugging him.

“But you two haven’t, since –”

“Since I went to live with Lisa.”

He realizes his mistake when the grin slips from Sammy’s face, and he’s about to take back his words, not wanting something else for his brother to blame himself over, but Sam is already shaking his head and apologizing. “Dammit, you should have told me, I wouldn’t have laid that promise on you –”

“Cas didn’t ask me to wait for him, either. Just said some shit about heaven and freedom and fucked off, and I didn’t see him again until you were out of the pit.”

“He left you to deal with everything alone?”

“Yup.” The single word feels like gravel in his mouth, and Dean takes a deep drink of his beer, not looking at his brother as his mood goes from amused to morose with disturbing speed. “And we’re not talking about it.”

Sam nods as he wisely decides to not push it, and silence settles between them as Dean finally stops fighting the desire to stare up at the stars, his body aching with the need to make sure that their warrior angel is alright. The memory of what he and Cas have been to each other has been sitting like a chunk of lead in his stomach for well over a year, and Dean is just beginning to realize that ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away.

“Oh, thank goodness, you boys are here.”

Sam and Dean are on their feet and cursing by the time Balthazar stops speaking, both of them spinning to face the angel who’s leaning against Bobby’s front door, dripping what looks like a puddle of blood onto the porch. Dean feels his stomach lurch with something that feels a lot like terror, because if Balthazar is in such bad shape, then – oh Jesus, where is Cas?

“Balthazar, shit. Is Cas –”

“Little help here, boys,” is all Balthazar manages to gasp, before he’s sinking down to the porch, legs folded awkwardly underneath him. Trying to think through his panic, because _where the hell is Cas,_ Dean realizes that his brother is yelling for Bobby and pulling Balthazar’s shirt off, revealing a nasty gash that goes all the way up the side of his stomach and chest.

“Jesus,” Sam murmurs, and then quite obviously realizes that this is going to be a long term project, ignoring Balthazar’s groan of protest as he starts to pull the angel back to his feet. Trying to focus on the immediate problem, Dean helps his brother to get Balthazar up on his feet and into the house, slamming the door shut behind them, with a steady mantra of _Cas, Cas, Cas_ running through his head – 

“Who the hell is this?”

Since Dean has left his brain somewhere out on the front porch, Sam does the explaining as he and Dean get Balthazar onto the couch, ignoring the angel’s sounds of unhappiness. By the time Dean has fetched towels from the front closet, trying to ignore how badly his hands are shaking, Bobby is glaring down at the angel, who seems to be bleeding out all over his couch.

“This is the idjit who broke my damn window?”

“Guilty as charged,” Balthazar manages to rasp, before he begins to shake and cough, the movement spraying blood across the couch. “You keep a – dammit – well stocked pantry, Mr. Singer.”

Bobby’s eyes narrow a little further, and he starts to pull needles and thread and all sorts of unpleasant things out of his desk drawer. “What the hell did the assholes upstairs do to you, stab ya with heaven’s holy sword of terror, or something?”

Balthazar’s only answer is to close his eyes and lay his head back against the arm of the couch, his breathing coming in pained rasps as Sam begins to clean the edges of that gash, blood spilling out all over Sammy’s hands. Trying to keep his stomach down, Dean grabs a bottle of whiskey from kitchen counter and gently knocks Balthazar on the shoulder with it.

“Hey, asshole. What happened? Why aren’t you healing?”

“Raphael – trapped me in this body after injuring me, and severely muted my powers – I cannot cancel the spell on my own, and I am too injured to heal my vessel properly –”

“Can this kill you?”

“I am not sure, but it is – unpleasant –”

“It’ll get worse before it gets better. Hurts like a bitch to be human, eh?”

The look the angel gives him is laced with loathing, but Dean can’t be bothered to care, grabbing a bucket of warm water from the sink and taking his place beside Sam as they both work to stop Balthazar’s vessel from losing every last bit of its blood. He doesn’t meet his brother’s eyes as they work, knowing he’s pale from the fear that’s making it difficult to breathe, but there’s nothing to be done until Balthazar is patched up enough to begin healing properly.

“Hold on to something, Balthazar.”

“Ah, Dean, such a – sweet beside manner –”

As Dean pours whiskey over the gash, figuring that keeping it clean is a good plan if Balthazar is going to be stuck here for awhile, he almost feels bad for the way Balthazar cries out and digs his teeth into his lip, his fingers curling unconsciously into Sam’s shirtsleeve. 

“Just keep breathing, and try to imagine doing this with none of your angel mojo. You’re still getting off easy here.”

Balthazar is letting out little pained breaths, and wow, if there’s ever a going to be a crash course in the worst aspects of having a human body, this is definitely making it into the curriculum. By the time Sam and Dean have done the best they could, stopping the bleeding and introducing Balthazar to the wonders of stitches and bandages, Dean has almost bit his own lip bloody to keep from asking about Cas, and Balthazar has gone a frightening shade of white.

“You alive in there?”

The angel’s eyes stay closed, and there’s absolutely no response. Whether Balthazar is unconscious or just unable to speak, Dean can’t be sure, but it makes him grind his teeth together, until he feels a large hand land on his arm, and Sam is pulling him back to his feet.

“C’mon. Let’s get everything cleaned up.”

“Cas –”

“Balthazar’s a dick, but he just got a crash course in human pain. Let’s give him a minute, alright? You won’t get anything out him now.”

Dean realizes his fingers are curling into fists with frustration, and he tries to calm his breathing, not liking the sad way Sam is staring at him. “Where’d Bobby go?”

“Painting sigils outside, in case Raphael shows up.”

“Wouldn’t those just about kill the angel we already have here?”

“Maybe, but Raphael definitely would. Not seeing much of a choice.”

Nodding jerkily and not meeting Sam’s eyes, Dean gathers up all the bloody towels and throws them in the sink, distantly realizing that Bobby is definitely going to need to get a new couch when this is over – and possibly an entire new living room rug. Stepping around the countless streaks of blood, and staring down at the angel who has yet to open his eyes, Dean sighs and closes his own eyes, feeling like he’s going to shake apart inside.

_Cas, I don’t know if you can hear me, but you’d damn well better still be alive, because I still need to kick your ass over every dick move you’ve pulled in the last year. So just... be careful, dammit, and if you’re hurt somewhere, just hold on, alright?_

“Dean.”

Sam’s hesitant voice makes him open his eyes, and he sees that Balthazar is staring up at them both, deep lines of pain etched into his face. His eyes seem wider than normal, and he’s digging his fingers into the couch beneath him, his breath still coming in uneven gusts.

“Never took you for the praying type.”

There isn’t any of the normal sarcasm there, every single word tight with pain, and Dean has a brief moment of feeling bad for the jackass before he tries to brush it away, moving a step closer to the couch. “Where’s Cas?”

Balthazar stares up at Dean for an agonizing second, as though the question isn’t quite processing right, and then the angel’s eyes are sliding closed again, and his entire body seems to press a little closer into the couch. “Cassy didn’t make it.”

Dean can’t hear over the white noise in his head, his stomach twisting up through his throat, sudden bile threatening to choke him. He’s distantly aware of the room around him, of the reeking stench of blood and alcohol, but everything is blurring together, and he can’t seem to breathe until he’s out of the room and sucking gulps of fresh air into his burning lungs.

_No, no, no, Cas, no._

“Jesus, Jesus, please God, no –”

Dean only realizes he’s praying when he swallows the taste of his own blood, his teeth ripping into his lower lip as his fingers dig crescents of pain into his own palms. Sucking in a heaving breath of stuttered air, Dean slams his eyes shut and concentrates on the flow of oxygen in his lungs, trying not to remember the last time Castiel had stood in this house.

_I’m sorry about all this. I’ll explain when I can._

“Dammit, Cas.” Dean can hear his own shaky voice, but he isn’t even sure what he’s saying, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut. “Dammit, you bastard, you can’t do this to me, please, I need you –”

“Come back inside.”

Sam’s voice cuts through the blinding noise in Dean’s house, but only barely, and Dean pointedly does not look at him. He knows exactly how unfair this world is, and he somehow doesn’t think that Castiel will be getting a third rise from the grave – what can Sam possibly say that will make things better?

“Dean. Please, come on, just – come listen to what Balthazar has to say.”

“What more could he possibly have to say?”

Dean’s voice sounds wrecked to his own ears, and he isn’t surprised by the tears on his face, given that all he can feel is the giant hole that has just been carved through his existence, a blur of agony that seems to be taking up all of his attention. When Sam’s fingers curl into Dean’s shirtsleeve, it’s all Dean can do to not jerk away and make a run for it, away from the hell that has just become his life.

“You didn’t give him time to finish.”

“He said –”

“Yeah, and you can punch him for it later. There’s still a chance that Cas might still be around, just – not necessarily a good one.”

Dean can’t even be embarrassed by how grateful he is to have Sam’s strong hand on his arm, because the mixture of relief and anger is enough to make his legs shake unpleasantly. Grinding his teeth together to the point of almost pain, Dean pushes his way back into the house and stands beside the couch, feeling himself vibrate with a slow burn of bone-deep anger.

“That your idea of a joke?”

“I wanted to assess how far you’d go to get your dear Cas back.”

The edges of Dean’s vision go from white to red, and the only thing that stops him from tearing Balthazar’s bandages off is the curl of Sam’s hand against his elbow. “You’re lucky I need you alive, you goddamn lying bastard –”

“Do you really think such blasphemy is appropriate when speaking to an angel?”

“You’ve got three seconds to get to the good stuff, and then I start breaking fingers.”

There’s the heavy thud of boots, and then Bobby steps back inside the room, presumably done making a series of sigils around the house. His shirt is covered in his own blood, and his face is a little paler than normal, but he barely blinks at the tense scene in front of him.

“What, ya gonna patch up the idjit and then rip him apart again?”

“He’d deserve it.”

The anger in Sam’s voice is all the vindication Dean needs, and he’d have hugged Sam if he hadn’t been so intent on glaring at Balthazar with everything he had. The angel is glaring right back, his face still a nauseating shade of white as he tries to push himself up slightly, before giving up when the movement sends a spasm of pain across his body.

“Raphael found me, and if Castiel hadn’t swooped in to save the day, I’d be stardust by now. Regrettably, several of Raphael’s henchmen also showed up – and weapons or no weapons, I wouldn’t want to take on all of those guys at once.”

“You left Cas to fight Raphael and her goons alone?”

“Castiel sent me here, when he realized that Raphael had cast a spell to keep me confined to this body. There was nothing I could do to stop him.”

Hearing the already pained rasp in Balthazar’s voice, Dean wonders just how much more damage he can do if he breaks Balthazar’s nose and clogs his throat with some of his own blood. He only realizes that some of what he’s thinking must be showing on his face when Balthazar forces himself up a little straighter, his expression hardening, and Bobby comes to stand beside Dean, his hand falling above the one Sam still has wrapped around Dean’s elbow.

“Lose the attitude, human. Don’t think just because I’m injured –”

“You ever lie to me about Cas like that again, and I will actually kill you.”

Dean has always been good at getting his point across with very few words, and from the way Balthazar’s lips press together into a thin line, the angel is just beginning to understand how truly vulnerable he is right now. Lying on a bloody couch, trapped in a human body with only minimal powers – it would have been vindictively funny, if it hadn’t been so damn inconvenient.

“Alright, all of you – just chill.” Bobby drops his hand from Dean’s arm, and rubs absently at the blood on his shirt, looking around his destroyed living room with a kind of sad resignation. “Goddammit, alright – we need a plan. Balthazar, or whatever the hell your name is – you need to tell us how to get you out of this spell, and then you need to work some of your magic and find Cas, so Dean loses his desire to tear your damn stitches wide open.”

Balthazar has closed his eyes again, but he nods, and then Sam is grabbing a pad of paper off of Bobby’s desk.

“Alright, Balthazar – start listing what we need. Dean, why don’t you hop in the shower and lose some of that blood while I’m putting this together?”

The message in Sam’s eyes – _take five to chill, because we need this guy alive_ – is clear as polished crystal, and Dean gives him a clipped nod before heading for the washroom, realizing as he opens the bathroom door that his hands are still shaking. Goddamn Balthazar, and damn his lies and deceit – 

And damn the way Dean had felt when he thought Cas was dead – that violent type of panic he hadn’t felt since his brother had taken that brief trip down memory lane. Swallowing down his nausea at both recollections, Dean realizes with a moment of fierce desperation that whenever they manage to get Castiel back, Dean is going to put things right between them, no matter what the cost is to his dignity. If the lingering tightness in his chest is anything to go by, then the idea of living life without Castiel is not something that Dean would approach with anything that resembled functionality.

\- - -

“Alright. You’ve told us what you need us to do. Now tell us exactly why it’s in our interests to make you into an angel again.”

Balthazar looks like he’s about two seconds away from tearing Sam’s head off at the question, and Dean feels his lips curl into a nasty grin as he steps back into the living room, deciding that such an expression of helpless fury is a good look on Balthazar. 

“You’ll never get Cassy back if I’m stuck like this.”

“That so?” Dean’s voice is still rough to his own ears, and he isn’t able to stop the twitch that goes through him at Balthazar’s casual nickname for Cas. “And how exactly are you gonna find him, anyway, if Raphael has him?”

“If Cassy managed to escape, then he’s likely injured, and possibly trapped by the same spell our deal older sister laid on me.”

“And if Raphael has him?”

“If Raphael has Castiel, then whatever’s left of him won’t be worth saving.”

Dean feels his vision swim with anger again, though he isn’t sure if it’s directed at Balthazar, or at the jackass archangel who’s been trying to kill Cas for months. He’s distantly aware of Sammy shooting him a sympathetic glance, and then Bobby is sitting down on the edge of the blood stained couch, staring down at Balthazar like he can drill holes through him with just his eyes.

“And if we give you your angel powers back, just how are you gonna find Dean’s angel?”

“Interesting phrasing,” Balthazar mutters, just as Dean makes a vaguely protesting noise, his stomach fluttering at Bobby’s casual acknowledgement of whatever had been between Castiel and Dean. “I have a spell that can be used to track his grace, if you are willing to help me.”

“Why should we believe you?”

Balthazar smirks and fixes Sam with a brand new glare, even if the heat of it is lost in the pain that’s still etched across his face. “What choice do you have?”

Dean’s chest tightens with sudden helplessness, an image of Castiel hurt and bleeding and alone flashing across his mind, and he climbs to his feet and snatches the piece of paper from his brother, not missing the pleased smirk that curls around Balthazar’s lips. “Bobby, do we have all of this?”

“Well, yeah, but –”

“Then let’s get it set up. If Cas is hurt, I’m not wasting any more time.”

“What if Balthazar –”

“And,” Dean continues, all but spitting out the words, his eyes going back to the injured angel, “If you’re lying, I’ll hand you over to Raphael myself.”

Balthazar’s smirk drops away, and the room seems to darken a little bit. “Don’t think I’m doing this for you, Dean Winchester. I want my annoying little brother home safely, and you just happen to be necessary for my spell to find him.”

Dean’s stomach turns over at the words, and he holds up a hand to stop the protest he can hear forming on Sam’s lips. “Whatever. This list says human blood. How much do we need?”

And so it starts, though Dean can feel himself getting more anxious with every passing second, barely noticing the prick of a needle into his skin as Bobby sets up an impromptu blood donor clinic. It isn’t a complicated ritual, but it involves a number of unsavoury items, along with the pint of blood that Dean finds draining from his own veins – and by the time Balthazar is drinking a concoction of ground up items that Dean would prefer to never think about again, the angel’s face curling in on itself at the taste of blood and less appealing ingredients, Dean is just about vibrating in place beside the couch, his aching head swimming ever-so-slightly.

“Tell me again why a human’s blood was needed for this?”

“Good precaution, to make sure this spell would never –” Balthazar closes his eyes and swallows hard, presumably trying to keep everything down. “Never be – dammit – broken – blood had to be given willingly –”

“Guess the spell doesn’t recognize coercion.”

Dean watches as Balthazar ignores his muttered comment, a hint of colour coming back to the angel’s face, as he pushes himself a little further out of the couch. Some of the pain is sliding from his expression, and his hand goes down to press against his side as his eyes slide shut with relief.

“Much better. I can feel the spell receding. My powers should return soon.”

“Good for you.” Dean’s hands are slightly unsteady, as he suddenly realizes exactly how much time has passed since Balthazar first landed on their porch, and he can feel Sammy moving closer to him, as though his brother can protect him from the fear that’s curling across Dean’s body. “Now what all do we need to find Cas? And what exactly do you need from me?”

There’s silence for a long moment, and then Balthazar opens his eyes again, something dark and truly dangerous flashing there. Dean feels a shiver streak across every inch of his skin at that look, and then Balthazar’s lips are curling into a disconcerting grin, his eyebrow cocked in a way that’s undoubtedly meant to scare the shit out of everyone in the room. 

“Your soul, Dean Winchester. I need your soul.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s no surprise that Sammy is the first to speak.

“No.”

Dean makes damn sure to avoid his brother’s gaze, focusing his eyes on the bloody carpet beneath them, and trying to pretend that he’s at least weighing the pros and cons of this. If the way Sam is vibrating in place is any indication, then Dean probably isn’t doing a good job of feigning reluctance.

“No. Dammit, Dean – no. I don’t even know what I did over the last year, but after everything you risked to get mine back, you can’t just –”

“Let the boy make his own decision, Samantha.”

Sam’s snarky response to Balthazar is mostly lost over the sound of Dean’s own thoughts, which can’t seem to focus on anything but the image of Castiel injured and alone, hurt and bleeding somewhere. 

“Well, Deany boy? What say you?”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, his mind flashing back to that first night he and Castiel had spent together, after their failed trip to the whorehouse – to the way Castiel had begun to sleep once he started to lose his grace, and would wake up in the morning with his hair pointing in every direction, soft mouth pressing sleepy kisses against Dean’s neck – the way that handprint burn would flare with heat whenever Castiel’s fingers touched his skin, a constant reminder that Castiel had given Dean a second chance at life – 

The time Dean had found Castiel in Zacharias’ trip to the future, when the angel had given up everything in his entire existence to follow Dean, even though it had killed him in the end.

“Dean! I know that face, and just – no!”

Dean shakes off the heavy hand from his shoulder, and ignores the way Sam keeps sputtering out sounds of anger, as Bobby sits on the couch and observes the scene with narrowed eyes. When Dean sucks in a breath and meets Balthazar’s smirking face, he feels tendrils of adrenaline begin to sneak through his veins, making it difficult for him to keep his voice steady.

“Conditions.”

“Of course.”

“I get it back.”

“I wouldn’t promise anything less.”

“I’m serious, Balthazar. I’m not walking around like a heartless monster, and it’d fall to Sam to put me down if you don’t give it back – and that shit just isn’t happening, you hear?”

Balthazar is climbing back to his feet as Dean speaks, stretching and sighing in a way that indicates his grace is already well under way to fixing up whatever’s left of his injury. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Dean. Though I must say, I’m flattered by your faith in me – you haven’t even asked why it has to be you.”

Dean feels his stomach squirm unpleasantly. “Yeah, and why is that, exactly?”

Apparently pleased with his ability to use his legs again, Balthazar saunters across the room, and Dean makes sure to not back up a damn inch as the angel comes to stand right in front of him, that smirk still curling across his face. Without a single word, he raises a hand to Dean’s chest, and Dean holds his ground as he feels something deep inside him rise to the surface of his skin, feeling like it was trying to pull him into thousands of pieces.

“Feels a bit like flying, doesn’t it?”

When Balthazar steps back, Dean is left staggering like a marionette doll, and he’s only distantly aware that Sam is there to catch him as he topples. Leaning on his brother and struggling to keep breathing, he can hear Sammy and Bobby shouting something, but all he can focus on are the lingering tendrils of something that feels like absolute peace that keep trailing across his skin.

“Balthazar,” he manages to gasp, and both Sammy and Bobby immediately stop yelling at the angel, “What the hell was that?”

“That, dear boy, was the slice of grace that dear Cassy left inside you when he raised you from Hell.”

Dean’s lungs suddenly aren’t working properly, and he decides that letting Sam hold him up isn’t such a bad thing, considering that his legs are still doing some odd shaking thing beneath him. He fails in his struggle to find words, his throat closing up by some odd itching sensation, but something must be getting through to Balthazar, because the cocky eyebrow has shot up again.

“Did you honestly never stop to consider what he used to knit your bones and skin back together?”

“Never crossed my mind,” Dean hears himself manage to rasp, and then he closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing, his body suddenly feeling alien and unknown, different in a way that has his stomach turning over and his hands shaking. “I had – I didn’t –”

“I’m not surprised the boy never told you. Cassy was always notoriously private.”

The fact that he’s only learning about this now shouldn’t feel like a betrayal, but it definitely does, and Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response, pushing himself free of his brother and forcing himself to meet Balthazar’s eyes. “There’s a bit of… angel grace, inside of me?”

“Tied to your soul, yes.” 

Dean can only stare at him, and he finds himself raising a hand to the burn on his shoulder, wondering why nothing like that has ever happened whenever Castiel has touched him there. The mark has always come to life under the angel’s fingers – has sent sensation streaming through his body, and served to remind him that Castiel could see right inside him – but there’s never been that soaring sensation, as though something was turning him inside out and pulling him up into the sky, giving him wings he’d never known he had.

“How could I not have known?”

“As far as I can tell, Cassy put some fancy little shield over it when he pulled you out. All I did was rip the covering off.”

“And… you can use it to find Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

Sam, to his everlasting credit, apparently realizes that arguing will be a waste of time. Instead, he turns and marches out the front door in stony silence, even as Bobby lets out a resigned huff of annoyance, looking like he desperately wants to punch something. His mind still running in circles over the wrench that have been thrown into his life, Dean ignores both of their responses and tries to riddle out the perplexed way in which Balthazar was staring at him.

“Not a second of doubt?”

“What makes you think –”

“I can see inside you, as clearly as if you were shouting your obnoxious devotion to the skies. You’re really that far gone over my brother?”

Bobby’s mutter of unhappiness is the only response to that, since Dean is already moving himself to the couch that Balthazar has recently vacated, somehow lacking the energy to get into an argument that he’ll have no hope of winning.

“Whatever, Balthazar. Go pop around and get whatever you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

Apparently Dean isn’t the only one who wants Castiel back as soon as possible, because Balthazar vanishes without a single word about being ordered around, and Dean braces himself for the tirade that’s moments away from being shouted out of Bobby’s mouth –

“You’re a goddamn idjit.”

The words are surprisingly soft, not at all the explosion Dean was expecting, and he looks up at Bobby with surprise. “No yelling? No cursing me out for being a fool?”

Bobby’s lips press a little tighter together, and he shrugs in way that seemed to indicate helplessness. “What the hell do ya expect me to say? I have eyes, boy. You and that damn angel have been mooning over each other for god knows how long, and while I ain’t gonna pretend to understand it, I certainly know better than to argue with ya.”

Dean finds himself unable to do anything but nod, and he pulls his eyes away from Bobby’s before they can get into another one of those conversations that requires both of them to grow lady bits. The sudden re-entrance of Sam rescues the situation, though his brother still looks like he wants to first put his fist through Balthazar’s nose, and then smack Dean over the head for being an idiot.

“Nothing I say will stop you, right?”

“Nope.”

Dean sincerely hopes that they aren’t about to bring down the house with a row, but Sam’s lips are pressing together in a way that indicates resignation, and Dean allows himself a tiny sliver of hope, cracking out a smile that he hopes is encouraging.

“Come on, man. If this was me in Cas’s position? Or Bobby? You know you’d do everything possible to bring us home.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Well suck it up, princess. Now why don’t you go get some rope, in case I go berserk after Balthazar finishes his soul fishing?”

Dean deliberately ignores the way he can actually see Sam pale at the words, and when both Sam and Bobby leave without saying anything else, it’s only then that Dean finally lets himself rest his face in his hands, fingers scraping against the stubble on his cheeks as he tries to forget exactly how unpleasant a scene it had been when Death had stuck Sammy’s soul back in his body.

_Cas, buddy, you’d damn well better still be alive, because I’m just about to go through some serious pain in your honour, and I’d hate for you to screw things up now._

It really isn’t much of a helpful prayer, especially considering it’s directed towards an injured angel, but Dean is still feeling the sting of betrayal over the fact that he’s had a piece of Castiel inside him all this time, and the angel had never deigned to tell him. It’s stupid – beyond stupid, actually – to be upset about it now, when Castiel is probably trapped somewhere in an injured human body –

But the deception hurts nonetheless. After everything he and Castiel have been through together – and with the unfortunate way Castiel can see into Dean’s very soul, whenever the nosy bastard so wishes to take a peek – the fact that Castiel hasn’t trusted Dean with this seems to be rubbing against way too many old wounds, leaving Dean wanting to just himself hide away from everyone for awhile. Is nobody in his life ever going to trust him with the whole truth? 

“Dean?”

Dean presses his shaking hands against his knees and looks up from his seat on the couch. Sam is holding a length of rope in his hands, and he seems to be shifting in place, as though he can somehow sense exactly what Dean was thinking.

“Why don’t ya get comfy, Sammy? Could be awhile –”

“If Cas didn’t tell you, then I’m sure there was a reason for –”

“Yeah, so you know those conversations that we’re never gonna have?”

Sammy’s bitch face is interrupted when Bobby steps back into the room, glowering at nothing in particular, his boots making unhappy stomping noises against the bloody carpet. “The damn angel’s making himself comfy down in my panic room. Said it’d be best to do it there, so you can ‘settle’ when he’s done with you.”

Dean tries to pretend that sudden nausea isn’t spilling around in his gut. “Great. So, it’s soul torture time, then?”

“Dean –”

“Yeah, Sammy – not funny, I know. Can we just get this over with?”

Despite his request for haste, and for all that Dean desperately wants to find Cas, the walk to Bobby’s panic room doesn’t feel nearly long enough. By the time Sam is cuffing him to the bed, and Balthazar is mixing together some disgusting concoction on the desk, Dean is wondering if it’s possible for his heart to actually beat out of his chest.

“Hey guys, keep that rope around for after you un-cuff me, mmmka? Don’t think I’ll have any reason to hurt you, but I’d prefer you to keep an eye on me.”

Sammy is looking more and more freaked out with every word, and Dean suddenly remembers something incredibly important he’d forgotten to do. As soon as the cuffs are in place, Dean makes sure to catch Sammy’s eyes – which seem to be gradually filling with something that looks a lot like guilt – before he steadies his voice and aims for something that sounds less nervous than he really is.

“I want you to get out of here.”

“No goddamn way.”

Sam has pulled out his stubborn face and crossed his arm across his chest, and Dean can all but see him digging his feet into the ground. Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Dean focuses all his energy on the conversation, making it easier to ignore the soul reaping that’s about to happen to him.

“You don’t need to see me like this. Could trigger you. Knock down that wall.”

“Dean, you can’t just –”

“I won’t destroy you to get Cas back.”

Dean tries to soften the order into a plea, and Sammy’s jaw clicks shut on whatever tirade was about to spill forth.

“Me? Sure. My life, my rules, and I can gamble it for whoever the hell I want. But I fought too damn hard to get you human, and if I lose you again, then the guy I become won’t be someone Cas would even want to keep around.”

And for all that Sam never went on that trip to Zachariah’s futuristic wasteland – for all that he never saw the shattered men Dean and Castiel had become, with their relationship twisted into something raw and broken and desperately dangerous – some of what Dean was saying must be getting through to Sammy’s big brain, because his brother’s eyes are softening in that way they do whenever he’s conceding a point that makes his overly sentimental heart break on Dean’s behalf.

“And if I don’t want to let you do this alone?”

“Sorry, little brother. The big brother gets the final decision on this one.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t really care. Get the hell outta here for awhile.”

“Dean –”

“As touching as this little conversation is,” Balthazar says suddenly, and Dean can’t stop the tiniest flinch, having been almost able to forget that the angel was there, “The family drama really isn’t necessary. I’ll look after your darling brother, Sam, so there’s really no need to fret – why don’t you and Bobby go find a bar to drown yourselves in, hmm?”

With a snap of Balthazar’s blood-stained fingers, both Sammy and Bobby are gone, and Dean hears himself cursing something incredibly blasphemous as Balthazar turns to face him. Never losing that smirk that he seems to love so much, Balthazar tilts his head slightly, and shrugs in a way that seemed to convey extreme innocence.

“What? You wanted them gone.”

Dean is almost biting through his own lip. “Where the hell did you send them?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head –”

“I want them somewhere safe.” Dean can feel the handcuffs biting into his wrists, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s straining to get free. “Not out in the middle of nowhere where Raphael could –”

“Oh for crying out loud, they’re stuck in the damn kitchen upstairs. Now can we please stop dicking around, or would you like to prolong this until your boyfriend is nothing but a broken pile of human flesh?”

Dean forces himself to breathe steadily, and concentrates on relaxing his muscles against the bed. “I’d ask for your word, but I’ve got this odd feeling you’d just laugh.”

“How astute of you. Now stay still. I’ve mixed you a little something.”

“What’s in it?”

“In addition to the mermaid blood on my fingers, you mean?”

The room around Dean begins to spin, and he carefully rests his head against the bed, staring up at the fan above him and trying to not think too hard on what was happening to him. He’s torn between asking if Balthazar is serious, or asking if mermaids are even real – but he’s pretty sure he knows the answer to both.

“Mermaids have long been adept at finding missing people – those lost at sea, mostly. I’m not sure who first discovered that their blood could be used in this way –”

“You killed a mermaid for this?”

When Balthazar shrugs carelessly and picks up the glass of whatever he’d been mixing together, Dean closes his eyes and bites down hard on his lip, his stomach rolling and twisting in ways that leave him already struggling to keep the bile down.

“Would it have made any difference, if you’d known beforehand?” 

Not trusting himself to answer that one, Dean keeps his lips pressed firmly together, forcing himself to remember that they’re doing this to save Castiel’s life, and Balthazar nods in what looks like approval. 

“That’s what I thought. Now lift up your head, and drink this – doesn’t have anything too chunky, so it shouldn’t be that difficult from your position.”

“Oh, god,” Dean hears himself mutter weakly, and then all he can recognize is that goddamn Balthazar is feeding him something that tastes absolutely vile, holding his head in place as he brings the cup to Dean’s lip. As the bloody mixture slides down his throat, triggering his gag reflex and making him squeeze his eyes shut, the only way Dean keeps his stomach down is by reminding himself of why exactly he was doing this.

_Cas, you feathery sonuvabitch, you so fucking owe me._

The minute the cup is brought away from his lips, Dean slams his teeth into his lip and tries to curl in a little closer on himself, counting backwards in his head and attempting to focus on anything except the rebellion that’s currently going on his stomach. It takes all of ten seconds for him to realize that his skin is starting to get uncomfortably hot.

“Balthazar?”

Dean isn’t fond of the rough choke to his voice, but the heat and the cuffs are suddenly far too similar to a certain forty year period of his life, and Balthazar’s eye roll isn’t comforting in the slightest.

“Don’t get too antsy, Dean. We’re just getting started.”

Muttering another weak curse, Dean closes his eyes, concentrates on breathing, and tries to ignore the licks of heat that keep streaking along his skin. It’s only when he hears Balthazar chanting something that he opens his eyes again, trying to focus on remembering the words – 

But with the way his head is swimming, even the most basic sounds in Enochian are getting lost in the roar, and his skin is so damn hot. Dean tears his eyes from the angel to focus on the desk, where chalk marks have been drawn around another bowl – and then Dean jumps against his chains when Balthazar moves towards him, still muttering softly in Enochian, eyes closed and hands stretched out.

“Motherfucker,” Dean mutters weakly, but his limbs are too weak to even pull against the bonds that hold him in place, and he can feel his heart beat into his throat at the angel puts his hands on his chest. “Oh Jesus, shit, I hate you so much right now –”

A strip of material is shoved into his mouth, cutting off the words, and when Balthazar’s fingers slide into his skin, Dean suddenly understands why Sammy had screamed himself hoarse, when Death had done this to him. Dean can hear the noises he’s making, feels his throat going raw with the screams he can’t stop, but all he can focus on is the pain, hot and cold at the same time, slicing like razors across every inch of his skin, flaying him apart from the inside out –

And it doesn’t stop. 

Dean can feel the wetness on his cheeks, can hear himself pleading with Balthazar to stop, and it’s only when Balthazar’s full hand is inside his chest that Dean’s voice begins to crack. He tries to stop the broken noises from getting out, frantically reminding himself that after forty years with Alistair, this should feel like nothing – but the thought does nothing to help, and Dean can focus on nothing but the blinding agony that seems to have suffused his very being.

Then – 

The screaming and pain suddenly stop, and Dean can feel absolutely nothing. The last thing he registers is the sight of someone standing over him, bright slivers of light shining out from between his hands –

Darkness – blessedly pain-free – slides across Dean’s mind, dragging him under.


	3. Chapter 3

Something is touching his face, hitting none too gently against his cheek, and Dean bolts upright so quickly he feels his muscles rebel at the movement. It takes him a second to realize that he’s slammed into a solid body, and then Balthazar is on the other side of the room, leaving Dean to stagger for a moment as he stumbles to his feet and tries to stay vertical.

“You always wake up like the dogs of hell are still after you?”

The words process, but the meaning behind them gets lost, and Dean takes a moment to just stare at the angel, unsure of exactly what’s going on. It takes only seconds for everything to come back, and he watches as he raises his own hand to his chest, where Balthazar had only recently been fishing around behind his rib cage.

“Did the spell work?”

He hears the roughness to his voice, throat raw from screaming, and he looks down at his wrists, where there are marks from straining against the handcuffs. Balthazar is frowning at him, and some distant part of Dean realizes that he should probably be hating the guy right now, for putting him through that much pain –

But there’s nothing. It’s like Sam said. Absolutely no emotion.

It’s the most wonderful thing Dean has felt in a long time.

“Dean?”

He feels his lips curl into a toothy grin. “Yeah, I’m here, Balthazar. Why don’t we bring my brother down here, see if he understands exactly how much of a bastard he was to me over the last year?”

“I do believe you mentioned something about not wanting him to see you like this.”

“Since when do you listen to what I have to say?”

There’s a pleased smirk pulling at Balthazar’s lips, and with a snap of his fingers, Sam and Bobby are both standing in the tiny room. Sam takes a step towards the angel, while Bobby begins cursing Balthazar out for being an idiot – before both men freeze and stare at Dean, and Dean wonders if it’s really that obvious that he’s joined the ranks of the soulless.

“Dean?”

There’s a shake to his brother’s voice, and Dean can’t stop his smirk from becoming a full grin. “You were right, little brother. I could hunt anything like this.”

“But you –”

“Pretty sure I might have done ya a disservice, sticking that thing back down your throat.”

His brother’s eyes are wider than Dean’s ever seen them, and Dean takes a moment to stretch out all his aching muscles, ignoring the two hunters as he turns back to the angel. “Why exactly are we going after Cas, again? Isn’t he probably already dead?”

“Oh, Jesus,” he hears Sam mutter, and even Balthazar frowns at that one.

“While familial ties may mean nothing to you right now, Cassy is my little brother, and I’d like to get him back in one piece.”

“Well, that’s sweet and all, but why are you risking yourself – and my soul, for that matter – on a mostly hopeless case?”

“We need him to fight the war for us, remember?”

There’s rational there, and Dean feels himself shrug. “Alright, so try to take us to him. You worked the spell, so get on with the angel hunting.”

“I need to sit down,” comes from behind him, and then Bobby is perched on the edge of the bed, watching the scene with eyes that are almost as wide as Sam’s. As they watch, he rubs his face with the back of his hand, and Dean finds himself begrudging the waste of time.

“Come on, Balthazar, get on with the magic.”

“I do not need you to come with me.”

“Suit yourself.”

Dean’s already walking out of the room when his brother grabs him, even as they hear Balthazar vanish in a flurry of feathery noises. When his brother does nothing but stare at him, Dean feels himself raising his eyebrows, trying not to pull away from the unwanted contact.

“What? Balthazar will take care of Cas, and I could take on the world right now. Why don’t you find me something to hunt?”

“You trust Balthazar to bring your soul back?”

“Not really, but I can deal without it for a bit.”

He leaves Sam standing in the panic room doorway, and it’s not until he’s upstairs, fishing a cold beer out of the fridge, that Sam and Bobby have managed to catch up. They stand in the doorway for a moment, while Dean stares out the window and cracks his beer, listening to the unhappy muttering that’s coming from behind him.

“He didn’t want you to see him like this.”

“You actually expect me to leave him now?”

“He’s gonna be pissed as all hell when Balthazar puts him right again.”

There’s a long silence, and then Sam’s pulling a beer out of the fridge and coming to stand beside him, while Bobby goes stomping off in the other direction, cursing loudly as he goes. Looking up at his brother, Dean smirks and presses their bottles together in front of them, and the smile Sam gives him is hesitant.

“That still you in there, somewhere?”

Dean shrugs and takes a drag from his bottle. “You tell me. You’re the one who keeps on insisting that you’re responsible for everything you did over the last year.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about.”

“We’re not. I may not be feeling much of anything, but you’re a solid hunter, and I’d prefer to have you here, instead of vegetating in some hospital bed.”

When his brother nods, Dean sits himself down at the table and puts his feet up on one of the chairs, feeling his features crease in a frown as Sam sits down across from him, those big brown eyes focused on the beer bottles, and then on the table, and then on the ceiling. There’s silence for a long moment, until Dean loses his patience with the way his brother is looking at anything but him.

“Stop acting like I’m gonna tear your head off. I’ve got no reason to.”

“You’re still freaking me out.”

“That’s because you’ve always been the wussy brother.”

“You asked why we were rescuing Cas. Forgive me if I find that disconcerting.”

His brother is staring at him with his big wide puppy eyes, and Dean smiles widely when he realizes that, for the first time in his life, that particular expression doesn’t make him feel like he’s choking on guilt. His mind flashes back to that conversation between him and Sam, back when Castiel had first pulled him out of the pit, and Dean had been sitting on the hood of the Impala, unable to stop his tears, telling his brother that he would give anything to feel absolutely nothing –

It seems that his wish has finally been granted.

“Dean? You… okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Just gimme a minute to think.”

“Cas could be back any time. We should get ready in case he’s injured –”

“A moment, Sam. Trying to get my thoughts together here.”

Dean presses his lips tightly together, ignoring his brother’s continued look of concern, and focuses on what he remembers of the angel. Castiel had been the one to free him from Hell – he had been there for him when Dean had become overwhelmed by the impending Apocalypse – he had given up everything in his entire existence to follow Dean –

And he was great in bed. That much, at least, Dean remembers with intoxicating clarity.

“Dean?”

Dean doesn’t bother to stop his wolfish grin, images of Castiel’s body still dancing around his mind. “Come on, little brother. There are creatures out there who need killing. Let’s find something to hunt.”

Dean’s climbing to his feet and heading for the door when he realizes that Sam isn’t following him. When he raises his eyebrows at his little brother, wondering what’s with the hold up, Sam’s face scrunches into a rather pained expression.

“We need to stay here. Wait for Cas and Balthazar to come back.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, tough.”

Dean doesn’t feel anything at the response, but his skin seems to tighten up just slightly, a purely physical reaction, likely to being told what to do – and especially being told by his younger brother. When his only response is to stomp out the front door, fingers itching for something to hunt down and kill, he ignores the way Sam’s cursing after him.

“Dean, wait!”

It’s not until he’s almost sliding behind the Impala’s steering wheel that Sam manages to grab hold of his shirt sleeve, stopping him from getting into the car. Fighting the urge to pull himself free, Dean glares up at his brother.

“You got a problem with me wanting to do my job?”

“I have a problem with you doing anything while you’re like this.”

“So come with me and keep an eye on me.”

“We need to be here.”

Dean feels himself bristle again, and he sees Sam swallow nervously, an unmistakable glint of unease in his eyes – but then there’s the sound of yelling from the house, Bobby’s rough voice telling them to get the hell back inside, and Dean teeters on the edge of ripping free from Sam and sliding onto his baby’s smooth upholstery.

“Dean, come on, please. Bobby might need us for something.”

“Don’t even try to play the Bobby card. You fucked him over – don’t think that entitles you to suddenly care about him.”

Sam’s hand slides free, ever so slowly, and he takes a step back. “You know I don’t remember anything.”

“And that’s how it’s gonna stay. You’re no good to me if your mind breaks.”

“Dean –”

“Would you idjits get back in here!” They both glance over to where Bobby is standing in the doorway, face creased into a dangerous scowl, and his hands stained with fresh redness. “The damn angel is hurt, and I can’t play nursemaid on my own.”

As Bobby stomps back into the house, leaving Sam and Dean alone outside, the puppy eyes come back out in full force, trained on Dean in a way his younger brother has perfected over the years, and Dean can only laugh. 

“You’ll have to try harder than that, Sam. I’ll come with ya, but not because you’re batting your lashes at me.”

Dean eases out of the Impala’s front seat and closes the door, ignoring the relief that flits across his brother’s face. By the time they make it back into the house, the stench of blood is enough to make Sam scrunch up his nose in distaste, and Bobby’s cursing up a storm, glaring at them both as they walk through the front door.

“Gonna help now, or you two still too busy yapping?”

Dean closes the door behind them and sweeps his eyes across the scene, noting that Balthazar’s place on the couch has been replaced by Castiel, who looks like he’s been wrung through a meat grinder. There are scraps of cloth dangling out in all the wrong places, smears of blood soaking out of his jacket in broad patches, and his face is a mixture of dark bruises and splashes of red, one cheek so badly swollen Dean can barely tell the difference between eye and skin.

"Wow. We have enough bandages to keep Cas in one piece?"

Sam's trying to glare a hole right though him, but Dean's too busy studying the broken lines of Castiel's body, realizing with a sudden surge of irritation that whoever had ripped into Castiel had done a messy and imprecise job of it. The blood and ragged edges are making something stir deep inside of him, and Dean cocks his head a little, wondering what it would be like to be back in Hell, and to be managing Alistair’s little torture chamber again, but this time without his soul to hinder him. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told his brother how much he’d enjoyed carving people up, and somehow, that fact doesn’t seem nearly as horrendous as it did less than an hour ago.

“You know, Dean, I’ve stolen a few souls in my time, but your dark little mind probably takes the soulless cake.” 

Standing beside the head of the couch with a hand over his side, Balthazar is staring at him as though he’s just seen Dean do something horrible, and Dean shoots him a quick eye roll before returning his gaze to Castiel, whose breath is coming in sharp bursts as Sam begins to cut the trench coat away from his blood soaked body, searching for injuries to put pressure against. 

“Where did you find him?”

“Why don’t we save story time for later, and you get your sleeve rolled up, before your boyfriend bleeds out all over Mr. Singer’s couch?”

Bobby’s standing in front of him with an IV and a bag, and Dean suddenly remembers that his help is required to free Castiel from this human body, and to get him back into his self-healing angel mode. As he stares at the needle in Bobby’s hand, there’s a low moan of pain from the body on the couch, and Dean frowns at the unpleasant noise, turning his eyes back to Balthazar.

“What, you can’t just mojo him better?”

“No.”

“Why can’t we use Sam’s blood? I’m over my daily quota.”

“Unfortunately for you, your dear little Sammy is something of an abomination, and his blood is much too polluted to use.”

Dean doesn’t miss the way Sam’s shoulders harden at the words, but his brother doesn’t argue the point, and, for once, Dean doesn’t feel the need to rise to his defence. It’s a nice change from the last twenty years of their lives, and he’s about to offer another argument over blood donation when Castiel makes that low groaning noise again, and Sam follows up with a sound of concern.

“I can’t stop his vessel from bleeding.” The big brown eyes train themselves on Dean, swimming with obvious fear. “Dean, we need to do this now, or he’s gonna die before we can get him free from this spell.”

Watching the angel shake on the couch, Dean realizes how bizarre it is to know that you’re supposed to feel something, and to not feel a damn thing.

“Dean, _goddammit_. Would you just –”

“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist, Sam. I’m not going anywhere.”

Settling himself down into the chair beside the couch, Dean carefully restrains a smirk when Bobby sizes him up before assembling his impromptu blood donor kit again, keeping a cautious eye on his face as he slides the needle into his arm. Barely feeling the sting, Dean stares at the wall across from him and concentrates on monitoring his body, not liking the way he can feel his head begin to spin from the further blood loss.

“Alright?”

“I’m not going to tear it out of my arm and stab you with it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Bobby mutters something that sounds exasperated, and then Dean stops paying attention to anything other than how the loss of blood is affecting him, realizing that this is exactly why Sam hadn’t wanted his soul back. Less than an hour ago, the idea of Castiel getting hurt had been enough to send him into a blind panic – and now, with the angel bleeding all over the couch, Dean can still think perfectly clearly, and he frowns at the fear he can see written across the tense strain of his brother’s body.

“You alright over there?”

He isn’t going for condescension, but something must get through, because the look Sam gives him is positively lethal.

“I’d be better if Cas wasn’t dying in my hands.”

“Just keep him breathing until Bobby’s done with his vampire act.”

“You know, this would be a whole less lot terrifying if you’d just –”

“Dean?” 

The voice is nothing more than a weak rasp, like gravel being scraped across concrete, and as Sam back spins around to face Castiel, Dean feels himself frown, unable to see the angel’s face from his seat on the chair.

“Sam, get your big body out of the way –”

“It’s alright.” Bobby carefully draws the needle out of his arm, taping down a piece of gauze as he manages to avoid Dean’s eyes, probably still concerned about what he’d see there. “You’re done, anyway.”

Dean slides from the chair and comes to stand beside the couch, staring down at the injured angel, whose breaths are coming in pained bursts. Castiel’s eyes are still closed, and he seems to have more blood on him than in him, his fingers clenching at the couch underneath him, and his body shaking as Sam keeps pressure applied to a wound that’s soaking through the material around his stomach.

“Hey, Cas. Not so lucky with the other angels, huh?”

The bruised lips part on another moan, and Castiel then swallows hard as Sam switches to a less destroyed cloth, pressing the new material down against the angel’s stomach again. Glancing around the room, Dean frowns, realizing that they’re minus one angel.

“Where the hell did Balthazar go?”

Sam just shakes his head helplessly, and Dean glances over to where Bobby is mixing together the necessary ingredients, before he sits himself on the edge of the couch and stares at Castiel, realizing again how bizarre it is to feel nothing, even when he knows he should. The angel shifts beside him, and then a bloody hand is grabbing at his, curling tight around his fingers.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes again, his teeth biting crescents into his bottom lip, before he shudders and tightens his grip on Dean’s hand. “Dean, I –”

“Relax.” There’s nothing wrong with the physical contact, but Dean still finds himself fighting the urge to pull away, not liking the blatant neediness in Castiel’s voice. “Sam and Bobby are gonna fix you up, so you’re good to get back out there and kill Raphael.”

Castiel’s entire body shudders again, his grip tightening even further, and then his eyes finally slide open, bright blue and glazed with pain, zeroing in on Dean with deadly precision. Dean makes himself hold the gaze, liking the gentle press of Castiel’s fingers against his own, even if the warmth in Castiel’s pained eyes is like rubbing raw skin against sandpaper –

Then, Castiel’s whole expression seems to crumple, and he slams his eyes shut again, his breath suddenly coming in wheezing gasps. 

“Cas? You okay?”

Sam is brushing a lock of hair from Castiel’s eyes, but Castiel shakes his head and tries to pull away, his voice coming in a low mutter, every word stuttering out of him.

“No, Dean, no – what did Balthazar do to you, what did he, how could you –”

“Alright, boys, out of the way.”

Sam is already standing by the time Bobby kneels down beside Castiel’s impromptu bed, and Dean gets to his feet a little slower, cracking his back with a long stretch, even as he wipes his bloody hand against his jeans. Castiel is still making tiny pleading noises, and Dean turns away in search of somewhere else to sit, his legs shaking from the amount of blood he’d given away in such a short time.

“Dean, are you –”

“Sam, do us both a favour, and please don’t ask if I’m fine. I had little patience for your heart to hearts before, and now that I’m soulless, I’ll have even less.”

Ignoring the stricken expression on Sam’s face, Dean bypasses the chair and heads for the kitchen in search of beer, not wanting to stand around and watch Bobby coax a delirious angel into drinking something disgusting. His brother doesn’t follow him, and by the time Dean has a beer and is out on the porch, he’s already planning the best way to convince Sam that a little more time without his soul won’t go amiss.

After all, he’s done nothing but hurt for decades, and this, right here, feels a lot like a vacation from himself.

\- - -

“You gonna sit out here all night, or are you gonna come look after your angel?”

Dean opens his eyes slowly, staring up at where Sam is staring down at him, his expression something between disconcertion and pity. It draws a scowl to Dean’s own face, and he sits up a little straighter, putting his empty beer bottle down on the porch beside him.

“The spell worked fine?”

“He still seems a bit twitchy, but I think that’s more to do with you.”

“Yeah, he would be getting his feathers in a knot over something like this.”

_“Dean.”_

“What?”

They stare at each other for a long moment, until Dean heaves a sigh and gets to his feet, leaving the empty beer bottle to roll around on the porch. He spares a moment’s glance at the Impala, wondering if he can get away with going for a drive, maybe find something to hunt and carve up; but if the way Sam is eyeing him is any indication, he’d probably have to go through Sam and Bobby to get to his car, and he kind of needs them both to be functional later.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m breaking your heart just by existing.”

Sam doesn’t seem to have a response to that, so Dean brushes past him and back into the house, thankful that there doesn’t seem to be any sign of Balthazar yet. The living room still reeks of blood, and it’s only when he leans against the door frame, studying the angel in front of him, that Dean realizes that neither Sam nor Bobby have followed him into the room.

“Well? Feeling better?”

Castiel is sitting on the ruined couch, his clothing good as new, and not a speck of blood or grime on him. His skin is abnormally pale, as though there’s not enough blood in his vessel for the body to actually do what’s expected of it, but it’s not until he opens his eyes that Dean realizes just how much Castiel is still hurting, even if none of that hurt has anything to do with what his physical body just went through.

“You let Balthazar have your soul?”

“You’d prefer me to have let you die, out there on your own somewhere?”

Castiel just stares at him, his big blue eyes somehow wider than normal, and Dean fights the urge to spit out another sarcastic comment, knowing that it won’t make the situation any better. Castiel is his – something, and he’s always been useful, and Dean needs to remain on his good side for now.

“You took an immense risk, Dean. If Raphael had intercepted Balthazar, he and I would have both died, and your soul would have been hers to torment for eternity.”

The ominous words don’t exactly strike a chord of fear, and Dean finds himself just shrugging in response, ignoring the way the casual dismissal makes Castiel’s eyes flash. When the angel suddenly gets to his feet, taking a step closer to Dean and staring at him as though he’s seeing right through him, Dean makes sure to not move an inch backwards, not wanting to give Castiel the satisfaction of having startled him.

“I do not understand you. We have been horrible to each other for months. Why would you allow Balthazar to –”

“Some advice here, Cas? If you want to talk feelings, don’t do it with the guy who can’t feel.”

Castiel looks like he’s in actual physical pain, and his eyes suddenly sweep down from Dean’s face to settle on his chest, where Balthazar had been groping around. It looks like Castiel is struggling to keep his hands to himself, as though he wants to look inside Dean for himself, and see what Dean is like without the safety net of his soul and humanity –

“But if you’d like to thank me in other ways, I can think of a couple.”

Dean doesn’t bother to even attempt to stop his grin, suddenly realizing that, notwithstanding the weirdness of his soulless state, there’s a delicious looking angel standing right in front of him, and it’s been well over a year since he had that body naked underneath him. When Castiel’s eyes go even wider and his breath audibly catches at the words, Dean puts on a lecherous smirk and drags his fingers across Castiel’s chest, before leaning in to press his teeth into the curve of Castiel’s lower lip.

“Dean –”

“Shh, relax.”

“Dean, stop, you cannot –”

“You actually want me to stop?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I think you’re lying.”

He can feel Castiel begin to tremble against him, feeding the fire that’s burning its way through Dean’s bloodstream; it’s been too long since they were together like this, and Dean’s body is aching with the need to take.

“Dean, we can’t –”

He wants to crawl underneath Castiel’s skin, and carve a place for himself inside that lean body; he wants to break him apart and make him scream, fuck into him and fuck him up in every way possible, and keep on pushing and pushing until the angel simply cannot take anymore. Barely holding back a groan at the thought, Dean bites down hard and then flicks his tongue against Castiel’s lips, curling his fingers into the material of that trench coat and letting out a croon of approval as Castiel slowly relaxes against him, obviously craving the touch –

And then the angel is pulling back again with a pained noise, slapping Dean’s hands away from him.

_“No.”_

There’s suddenly two solid feet of empty space in between them, and Castiel looks absolutely terrified, his hair pointing in every direction and his eyes fixed on anything that isn’t Dean.

“I must – I must find Balthazar. Stay here.”

“Don’t fucking boss me around –”

But Castiel’s already gone, leaving Dean hard up and frustrated in the middle of the damn living room, and Dean does his damndest to not punch the lamp beside him, his hands itching for something that can be shattered underneath his touch. It’s only when he feels something trickle down his palm that he realizes just how tightly his hands are squeezed together, and he carefully uncurls his hand, smiling a bit when his own fingernails slide free of his palm.

“Hey, where’d Cas go?”

Dean ignores the question, staring down at his bloodied palm, and wondering if it’s possible to stay in this state forever, where nothing seems to really hurt.

“Jesus, Dean, what’d ya do to yourself?”

His little brother’s expression has gone all frightened, as though he’d caught Dean torturing a kitten, or pulling the wings off of flies; and Dean shoots him a smirk before sliding past him into the kitchen, curling his bloodied palm around a cool beer bottle, and returning to his post on the front porch, his eyes on the car that’s parked in the driveway.


	4. Chapter 4

“Dean?”

Dean opens his eyes to see his little brother staring down at him, his expression a mixture of irritation and concern. Careful to not look anywhere near the Impala, Dean downs the rest of his beer before speaking.

“Yeah? There a problem?”

“You mean besides the fact that Balthazar disappeared with your soul?”

Concern is winning out over annoyance, and Sam looks like he’s about two seconds away from tearing after Balthazar by himself. Wondering if there’s a way to turn this to his advantage, Dean considers his options for a moment before answering, realizing that all he needs is for Sam to be preoccupied for two minutes, and Dean will be able to get into the living room and grab his keys.

“Where’s Bobby?”

“Upstairs in his room, moping.”

“Well, why don’t ya go grab him, and set up the angel summoning spell in the living room? It’s not like Balthazar can gut us as long as Cas still wants us alive.”

It’s not at all surprising that his little brother’s eyes narrow in obvious suspicion. “You know, you haven’t exactly been all gung-ho about getting your soul back. Why the sudden change?”

“Well, maybe, unlike when you were still being a soulless douche bag, I can tell the difference between what I want, and what actually needs to happen.”

Dean’s seen Sam take a blow to the face and look less rattled. With a clipped nod, his brother turns to go back into the house, his shoulder a stiff line of unhappiness, and Dean waits until he hears the thud of heavy footsteps on the stairs –

And then he bolts.

It takes only nine seconds for him to make it to the living room. Ten to make sure his keys and wallet are in his bag, a mere two to sling the bag over his shoulder – and in the fifteen seconds it takes to get from the living room to his car, his little brother is probably only just beginning to cajole Bobby out of hiding.

When the Impala rumbles to life beneath him, however, its usual purr is more than loud enough to draw the attention of the people inside the house, and Dean slams his foot onto the gas pedal as he goes for broke, knowing full well that pursuit will be mere minutes behind him. He may know these roads almost as well as Bobby does, but he’s still going to have to work fast, and he’s only ten miles down the road, the wheels barely touching the ground as the car groans beneath him, when he spots the gravel side road that will do nicely.

Cranking it hard to the left, and wondering how long that kick up of dust will be visible, Dean critically eyes the dirty road in front of him, hoping that some obvious tire marks have been left behind at the edge of the main road. There’s a steep hill to the side of this road that will do nicely, and he brings the car to the very edge, opens the door and throws out his bag, sticks his body as far out as it can go –

And then nudges the gas gingerly, holding his breath until the car inches forward a little bit, and then starts to roll of its own accord.

The next few seconds are a blur, and Dean scrambles to throw himself out the door, curling into a ball and hitting the ground rolling, his fingers scrambling for purchase in the damp grass as the car careens down the hill with a scream. He manages to come to a stop, panting for air and blinking dirt from his eyes, just in time to watch the Impala wrap itself around a tree at the bottom of the hill, metal screeching and glass windows shattering –

And then Dean is stumbling back to his feet and grabbing his bag, making a dash for the nearest tree line, and wondering how long Sam will waste searching the surrounding area for his body.

\- - -

“Hey, sugar. Any chance of another?”

He puts all his charm into his smile, suddenly realizing how nice it would be to spend tonight with his dick buried deep inside someone's body, but this one must be smarter than all the chicks Sam had been fucking while he was soulless, because there’s something uneasy in her eyes as she glances at him.

“Uh, sure. Coming right up.”

It’s been two weeks, and Dean’s managed to thumb his way to the border, wary of stealing a car when he knows that Bobby will be monitoring every police frequency he can get his ears on. He can just see Bobby and Castiel holed up together in the living room, Bobby listening for any hint of trouble, while Castiel pops around to check in on any potential thievery, like some unholy game of fucked up fetch.

“Here’s your whiskey.”

Her gaze darts around as though looking for back up, and then she’s gone again before Dean can so much as grin at her. Dean settles for watching her walk away, just barely able to see the curve of her ass over his spot at the bar counter, before he focuses all his attention on the shot that’s been placed in front of him. It’s not very good, but he’s on number five and has long since ceased to care about the taste – because soulless or not, he needs some goddamn alcohol to deal with the fact that he’s about to go into self-imposed exile in motherfucking Mexico.

“Goddamn you, Cas,” he mutters into his drink, before tipping it back and then slamming the glass down onto the counter, blinking back the burn and biting down a growl at the whole unfair situation. “Just had to go and fucking get yourself hurt –”

There’s a deafening screech from someone behind the counter, and Dean is on his feet in half a second, but it’s not nearly fast enough, because _there’s a goddamn angel crouched on the counter in front of him_ – 

“Motherfucker!”

Dean’s barely done cursing and jerking backwards when there’s a hand curling into the front of his jacket, and then he’s being lifted clean off the floor with what sounds like something close to a growl, a pair of flashing blue eyes all that Dean is able to see.

“Damn you, Dean Winchester, I cannot fight a war and chase you across the country at the same time!”

He’s still being violently shaken when the bar blinks out of existence and they end up in who-the-fuck-knows-where, and then Dean is hitting the ground with force enough to rattle his very bones, landing on his hands and knees and just barely managing to keep his head from making contact with the floor. Spitting out his breath and gasping, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs, Dean bites out a curse and snaps his eyes back up, where Castiel is towering over him like the personification of heavenly wrath.

“Well, lookie who decided to show up.”

Castiel’s lips tighten into a dangerously thin line, and for a moment it’s like that day in the alley, back when Dean had been begging Castiel to kill him – but instead of a fist making contact with his frail human body, he’s being unceremoniously dragged back to his feet, and Castiel’s furious expression is mere inches away.

“Do not test me, Dean. I have had a very trying week.”

“Well, goodie for you. How the fuck did you even find me?”

“You called my name.”

“That wasn’t a goddamn prayer! I was fucking cursing you out!”

“Then it is fortuitous that your curses ring louder in my ears than the prayers of anyone else.”

Castiel’s fingers are still curled into the front of his jacket, keeping him from even thinking about trying to move away, and there’s an angry flush to the angel’s pale skin, painting his cheeks a shade of pink that would normally have Dean leering. Now, though, as Dean struggles to pull himself free, knowing all the while that it’s useless, all he can feel is the way his heart is starting to race from something that has nothing to do with lust.

“Cas, don’t do this. I don’t want it back.”

“That is not your decision.”

“Come on, it’s not like I’m gonna go postal and start carving people up.”

“I am sorry, Dean. You did what you had to do to help your brother, and now it is my turn to help you.”

There seems to be a genuine apology in Castiel’s voice, and Dean tears his gaze away from those blue eyes, taking in the area around him for the first time since they landed. It’s nothing special, just a small white room, four walls, no windows – and a small black bag tucked into the corner of the room, harmless except for what Dean knows just has to be inside.

“Cas, no – please don’t do this to me.”

There’s nausea churning through his stomach, his voice coming out shakier than he’s aiming for, and he hates that he’s been reduced to helplessly begging, the same way his brother had been when Death gave him his soul back; but there’s no way he can get himself out of this one, not unless Castiel relents and sees that what he’s doing is only going to destroy Dean. 

"I don't want to goddamn feel anything! Why can't you just fucking accept that?"

“Because this is not your choice. And I am not going to keep apologizing.”

Dean somehow misses the part where the bed appears, but it’s impossible to miss suddenly being strapped to it, and he nearly breaks his wrists in his struggle to pull free, as Castiel reaches into the bag and pulls out a shining ball of light, streaks of it spilling through the cracks between his fingers.

“No,” Dean hears himself moan, the sound coming from far away, as that light shines in his eyes, representing everything he never wants to feel again. “No, Cas, please don’t –”

Then he can’t think through the pain. 

He can’t think. He can’t breathe. His chest is on fire, shards of glass shattering along his insides, and Castiel’s eyes are burning through him, his fingertips points of agony, like razor blades sliding across his skin – and he can hear himself screaming, begging for it to stop, but all he can see are Castiel’s unrelenting eyes, burning through him as surely as the fire under his skin – 

\- - -

“Dean, breathe. It’s over now, it’s alright – you’re alright.”

Every inch of his body aches. His skin feels like it’s been rubbed raw, and his blood is still screaming through his veins, trying to burn him up from the inside out. There’s something sliding slowly through his hair, a comforting touch amongst all the pain, but his throat is making this odd cracking sound as he breathes, and he can’t seem to speak through the taste of blood in his mouth.

“I’m sorry. It was the only way.”

The voice is close to his ear, and Dean gradually becomes aware of the hard body pressed up against his, the rough rasp of stubble against the side of his cheek, the strong shoulder his head is resting against, the careful arms wrapped tightly around his chest – 

“Cas,” he manages to croak, a pained rasp in the otherwise silent room, as he struggles to not arch into the fingers sliding through his hair, so goddamn grateful Cas will still touch him, “I’m sorry –”

“You cannot be held responsible for your actions.”

Dean tries to find a response, but it’s swallowed up by the sudden wave of emotion that crashes over him with merciless force, pain and self-loathing and regret battering up against him with painful intensity, the sheer force of sensation enough to drag a bitten-off whimper from his lips. It hurts, everything hurts again – and god, how could he have fucked up this badly?

“Stop blaming yourself.”

The words rumble through him as Castiel’s arms tighten around him, and Dean doesn’t even pretend to think about pulling away. He breathes hard against the annoying itch behind his eyes and tries to mold himself into Castiel’s body, wanting some kind of anchor as a maelstrom of human emotions rock through him again – and it’s only when he curls his fingers around Castiel’s arms, clinging tight as he presses himself harder against the body behind him, that he realizes –

Castiel is shaking against him. Actually shaking. A full-body tremble that seems to vibrate right through Dean’s entire system, sliding across his skin and touching every nerve, and making Dean blink a little harder at the burn behind his eyes.

“Goddamn,” he manages weakly, voice catching on the two syllables, “Cas, I’m so sorry –”

“I do not wish to ever cause you that much pain again.”

The words are rough against his ear, and Dean closes his eyes helplessly, nearly drowning in the sudden and merciless onslaught of regret – because, yeah, as much as it had completely sucked to be the one strapped to this bed, the very thought of ever causing Castiel pain like that is enough to make Dean’s stomach turn over.

“Go back to sleep, Dean. Your brother knows that you are safe, and I shall watch over you.”

Dean desperately wants to turn around and meet Castiel’s eyes, but he settles for taking the coward’s way out, snuggling a little closer to the body pressed against his, and wishing there was some way to make his heart stop feeling like it was about to beat right out of his chest.

“As if I could sleep now,” he manages to mutter, nearly losing the words completely when he realizes that Castiel is still trembling faintly against him. “Cas, really, I’m so –”

“Would you like me to whammy you to sleep?”

Dean swallows hard against the stupid flood of tears, utterly incapable of dealing with any of this after two weeks of blessed numbness, and doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s not choking on gratitude. When he manages to nod out an affirmative, there’s a gentle press of lips against his neck, before the fingers in his hair slide down to press against his forehead, and Dean gratefully closes his eyes against the world.

\- - -

When Dean wakes up again, he sees a canopy of early evening stars where he’s expecting to see a white ceiling, and there’s no warm body pressed up against his. His panic lasts for about two seconds, because by the time he’s sitting upright, his fingers reaching for anything he can use as a weapon –

Castiel is standing beside him, facing out over a wide expanse of crystal clear water, his eyes closed and his face tilted up to the stars. The sight feels much like getting punched in the gut, and Dean forces himself to breathe normally when Castiel sighs softly and opens his eyes, their unnatural blue tint not at all dimmed in the darkening evening around them.

“I did not wish to remain in that room any longer.”

Dean just stares at him, his mind spinning in circles and his stomach still churning from too much emotion, before he tears his eyes away from Castiel and looks around him, taking in the white sand and towering palm trees, and where the hell are they?

“Uh, Cas.”

“A small island off the coast of southern Thailand.”

“And before that –”

“I suppose you would call it the angelic version of a panic room. One of my more heavily warded retreat areas, when I am need of a hiding place.”

There’s something pained in Castiel’s voice, and Dean wonders just how many times Castiel has been forced to retreat to that room over the course of the last two years. Trying to force the unpleasant thought from his mind, Dean gingerly pulls himself to his feet and brushes the sand from the back of his jeans, his whole body tingling from the relentless pressure of Castiel’s customarily intense gaze.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

The rush of emotion is too much to handle – and how the hell is Dean ever going to get used to feeling things again? – so he settles for shaking his head and looking away, because no, he is definitely still far from alright – 

He jumps as strong arms wrap around him from behind again, without him ever even seeing Castiel move; and then Castiel is just breathing softly against his neck, his lips almost touching skin, and he’s holding Dean in an almost painfully tight grip that Dean has no desire to break free of.

“Is it alright to hold you like this?” There’s obvious hesitance to Castiel’s voice, for all that he’s invaded Dean’s space with all the subtly of a crashing train. “It seems that recent events have made me very aware of how much I do not wish to lose you from my life.”

“Cas,” Dean croaks as a response, and then he tells his dignity to fuck off for awhile as he turns to wrap his arms around Castiel in return. And even if he hates that they’re goddamn hugging like a couple of thirteen-year-old girls, standing on some stupid beach in Thailand – well, the world can suddenly hurt him again, and Dean knows from past experience that being close to Castiel is one of the few things that has ever been able to mute that pain.

“I shall take that as an affirmative, then.”

There’s a hint of amusement in Castiel’s voice, and Dean can’t help but choke out a laugh, digging his fingers into Castiel’s back and pretending that he isn’t holding on with everything he has. “That you still want to be near me almost makes me believe in miracles. I was thinking some pretty fucked up stuff, you know.”

“I know. I was listening.”

At any time, Dean would be bitching Castiel out for the mind reading, but given the circumstances they had been faced with, he figures he can forgive Castiel this one time.

“And yet you’re still here.”

“You forget that I made you from the ground up, Dean. I have long been privy to the darker aspects of you, and they are nothing compared to the goodness of your soul.”

Dean barely fights the urge to squirm free, something fluttering uncomfortably around the vicinity of his heart. “I wish you wouldn’t say shit like that.”

“It is the truth. And you need to hear it.”

“Yeah, well,” and then Dean makes himself pull away, finding something fascinating in the sand beneath them, as Castiel’s hands fall back to his sides, “We can discuss your fondness for my soul at another time. What the fuck did Balthazar want with it, anyway?”

Dean drags his eyes back up just in time to see any hint of contentment slide from Castiel’s expression. “He would not tell me. And I need him too much to force the information out of him.”

Despite the warm evening air around them, the chill that streaks down Dean’s spine leaves him shivering.

“Thankfully, despite his reluctance to admit the specifics of his plan, he knew better than to make me retrieve your soul by force. Balthazar may have his own agenda, but he is still my friend.”

Dean doesn’t exactly hear the last part of that sentence, still too busy cringing at the thought of Castiel forcing information out of anyone. “Well, how goddamn gracious of him.”

A hint of a smile appears on Castiel’s face at the sarcasm, and Dean wonders when exactly this happened – when Castiel began to understand and exhibit such human emotions, even while in full on juiced up angel mode. When and how had this even happened, and how could Dean have possibly missed it?

“When were you gonna tell me we were soul buddies, anyway?”

Dean suddenly and desperately needs to know, even if it means a lengthy discussion about things they probably really shouldn't feel for each other – but he isn’t prepared for the look of almost fear that flits across Castiel’s face, as a warm breeze sweeps down the beach and sends his hair fluttering, and his eyes get a little wider in the dim light.

“Please do not be upset with me.”

It’s so unexpected, so out of character, that all Dean can do is gape.

“I did not know how to tell you. It was not supposed to happen, just as the mark on your shoulder was not supposed to happen.”

“But what does it mean? Are we –”

The word ‘soulmates’ get stuck on his tongue, because the concept of him being the soulmate to an angel is just too ludicrous for him to give voice to; but the basic idea must be getting through to Castiel, because the angel shrugs in front of him, an almost helpless gesture that seems to convey the depths of his frustration.

“Your brother is your soulmate. That has never been in question.”

“Then how –”

“There is no precedent for a soul binding between one of my kind, and one of yours. Our souls are not designed to be compatible to such an extent.”

“Then what the hell happened?”

“It is possible to have more than one soulmate, and I suppose it is theoretically possible for a human and angel to connect in such a manner – but I honestly do not have the answers.” Castiel hesitates for a second as he stares at Dean, and Dean feels his heart try to beat free of his ribcage, the sensation sending a unpleasant tremble up from his chest to his throat. “All I know is that my soul knew yours, and that, of all my brothers and sisters, I alone could hear you over the din of Hell.”

And what is Dean even supposed to say to that? Closing his eyes, no longer able to look at the angel in front of him, Dean curses himself for the last two years of his life, curses himself for thinking he could ever live without this –

“Dean,” Castiel half whispers, and then there’s the sound of his feet on the sand beneath them, as he moves a few steps closer, “May I –”

“Whatever the question is,” Dean hears himself choke out, his eyes still squeezed shut, “The answer is yes.”

Then there’s an angel’s hand on his cheek, another wrapped around his elbow, followed by the barely there pressure of an angel’s soft lips against his own – and even with their emotions so desperately wrung out, and even though it’s been two years since they last did this, Castiel still kisses him like he’s something fragile, like Dean could break beneath Castiel’s hands if the angel pushes too hard.

It’s enough to make Dean’s insides go all warm and fuzzy, though he’ll deny it until the day he dies.

“Cas,” he whispers, as the angel’s lips move carefully against him, “It’s been way too long, man. I’m not going to break.”

“You forget that I have touched your soul, Dean. I know exactly how fragile you are.”

Dean hears a rather unmanly noise slip from his lips, and he knows he should be bitching out that comment with everything he has, but instead he darts his tongue out to curl against Castiel’s lips, desperate for something more than this almost unbearably gentle reverence. There’s a bitten off grunt against his lips –

And then he’s being spun around, his feet barely touching the ground, and pushed – still much too gently – against a motherfucking palm tree.

“Cas,” he gasps out again, but it’s mixed in with a helpless laugh, and god, it feels good to laugh. Castiel’s response is to murmur something indecipherable and bury his face into Dean’s neck, lips moving gently against the skin there, as he pins Dean against the tree with his entire body.

“Dean,” he mutters, his voice already gone rougher than normal, “What do you want? It has been too long, yes, but you have just undergone significant trauma, and I do not wish to presume –”

Dean can’t stop another laugh, though it sounds a little hysterical to his own ears. “Since when have we ever done this not after some kind of ‘significant trauma’? Just – fuck me, Cas, or do something, please –”

And there, that’s the kiss Dean remembers with fondness – Castiel’s teeth sneaking out to catch his lower lip, followed by a filthy slide of a tongue behind his teeth and across the roof of his mouth, with the angel’s fingers probably digging marks into his hips. Dean can’t stop a groan, his body taking interest with somewhat alarming speed, but it’s been _two years_ since they last did this, and Castiel’s kissing him like he wishes there were a way for him to crawl inside of Dean’s mouth and never leave.

When Castiel pulls back with a final flick of his tongue, the curve of his swollen lips shoots heat straight to Dean’s cock, but before Dean can catch them again Cas is already kissing his way down Dean’s neck, teeth scraping over his pulse point with a shock of pain that makes Dean grunt, as clever fingers slide into the top of his waistband and drag along the sensitive skin of his stomach. Dean bucks into the teasing touch, wanting those fingers to slide just a bit lower, but then the hands are gone and Castiel is stepping backwards, shrugging off his trench coat and letting it slide to the sandy ground. 

“I believe this would be easier if we both remove some of our clothing.”

It would be funny if not for the way Castiel is looking at him, gaze stripping down the length of his body like Dean’s skin is his own personal unholy playground, and Dean actually closes his eyes as he slides out of his jacket and shirt, the warm night hair curling across his skin like a caress, his fingers undoing the zipper of his jeans with hands that are not nearly as steady as he would have liked –

“That’s enough.”

Dean’s pants are barely down to his thighs when Castiel crowds back into his personal space and begins to drag his teeth across Dean’s collarbone, one clever hand sliding down to curl against the front of his underwear. Dean jerks into the touch before he can stop himself, his cock straining against the damp material, and Castiel responds by moving both hands to hold Dean’s hips in his place.

“Cas –”

Castiel meets Dean’s eyes for a second, his pupils blow large and black against that unnatural shade of blue, before he begins a slow slide down Dean’s chest, dragging his tongue and teeth across every inch of skin he passes.

“Goddammit.” 

Dean’s voice is nothing more than a weak mutter, and he curls his fingers into Castiel’s hair, giving up on getting Castiel out of anything more than his trench coat. The slide of Castiel’s lips against his skin is too distracting for Dean to even attempt to fix this uneven state of affairs, and by the time Castiel hits his knees, an angel kneeling in the dirt like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, Dean has lost the ability to argue.

“Cas,” Dean manages to rasp, as his pants are tugged a little lower and fingers curl into the top of his boxers, “Thought you were gonna fuck me. Won’t last if you’re down there too long.”

“We do not have time. I have already been away from Heaven for too long.”

“You can't be serious.”

Castiel’s response is to slide Dean’s boxers down to his knees, his cock springing free in the warm air, and Dean lets out a hiss as Castiel flicks a tongue across the head of it. He doesn’t have time to argue any further when Castiel raises a hand to his own mouth, shamelessly slides his tongue across it until his skin glistens, and wraps it around the base of Dean’s cock, sending a jolt of pleasure to every inch of his body.

“My apologies, Dean. We have been apart for two years. When I am inside you, I want to do it right.”

It probably says a lot about how whipped Dean is that some traitorous thing deep inside him enjoys the idea of someone wanting to take their time with him, even if his cock is protesting the idea of waiting any longer to have Castiel fuck him absolutely senseless. 

“What, like with satin sheets, and everything?” There’s another flick of soft tongue after the underside of his cock, Castiel’s fingers sliding ever so slowly across the sensitive skin, and Dean hisses out a breath as he closes his eyes. “I’m not your fucking prom date, Cas.”

“I don’t even know what means.” Castiel’s fingers dig painfully into the curve of Dean’s hips, and Dean’s eyes snap open just in time to watch Castiel’s tongue slide out to wet his lips in a sinful glide, those blue eyes never wavering from Dean’s own. “Now would you prefer me to keep talking, or have we both waited long enough for this?”

When the softly spoken words brush against sensitive skin, Dean lets his eyes slide shut again, unable to do much more than nod. He’s aching in the gentle grip of Castiel’s palm, and when warm fingers slide up the length of his cock, the only thing that stops him from rocking his hips forward is the relentless grip that Castiel’s other hand has on his hip.

“I wish you to just enjoy this, Dean – just let me do this for you. You are the one who taught me that feelings are not always a bad thing, and I wish to remind you of this.”

“Goddamn,” Dean mutters weakly in response, his heart jumping even as his dick strains in Castiel’s hand, and then Dean forces his eyes shut, knowing that if he watches the play of Castiel’s mouth across his skin, this will be over in about thirty seconds. Curling his fingers a little tighter into Castiel’s hair and doing his best to not pull, Dean bites back a moan as Castiel’s slick mouth begins to slide up and down his cock, tongue and lips putting pressure in all the right places, until Dean’s losing awareness of anything except the haze of pleasure that seems to be seeping into his very bones.

“Cas,” he gasps, hips jerking into that warm heat, “You sure you don’t wanna fuck me?”

The angel pulls his mouth free with an obscene pop, and oh god, the sight of Castiel on his knees, sweat slicked with swollen lips and a dangerous flush to his cheeks –

“There will be a next time, Dean. I promise. I am not going to leave you again.”

Dean feels heat shoot down the length of his entire body, and when Castiel’s fingers speed up along the base of his cock as his lips circle around the head again, tongue painting out wicked lines of heat as Castiel swallows hard around him, Dean is coming with a shout he can’t even attempt to silence, Castiel’s words ringing in his ears and his mouth curled around the slickness of his cock.

“God, Cas.”

He croaks out the words as he tries to make his legs keep him upright, streaks of heat still stripping along his aching skin, and then the next thing he knows Castiel is on his feet and pressed back up against him, trembling faintly as he pants against Dean’s lips, the taste of Dean’s own semen hotter than the sun when Castiel slips a tongue into his mouth.

“Dean,” he gasps out, and then he’s taking hold of Dean’s hand and resting it over the bulge in his pants, “Dean, please –”

The way Cas gets off on getting Dean off will never not be hot, and Dean struggles to remember how his body works, getting Castiel’s zipper down with hands that are still shaking, his knees all but knocking together beneath him. When he finally gets Castiel out into his palm, curling his fingers through his own slickness before wrapping a hand around the angel, Cas surges against him and kisses him like it physically hurts him to be breathing on his own, as though he wants to crawl underneath Dean’s skin and make a permanent home for himself. 

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean manages to murmur into the kiss, still feeling more than a little cross-eyed, and when the angel groans and buries his face into Dean’s shoulder, biting down on the sensitive skin as his cock jumps and spills all over Dean’s hand, Dean chokes out a groan of his own as he pulls Castiel hard against his body and just holds him there, stroking him through his orgasm and relishing the way the angel trembles and shakes against him. 

It’s a good minute before either of them move or speak, and then Castiel is kissing him again, soft and gentle like he still thinks he’s going to break Dean, and Dean can’t stop the smile that curls along his lips as he returns the gentle gesture, wondering if his legs are ever going to be fit to hold him up again.

“So, there’s gonna be a next time, hmm?”

His voice sounds absolutely wrecked to his own ears, and it would be embarrassing if not for the way Castiel still seems to be using Dean's body to remain upright. After a moment of silence, Castiel pulls back long enough to meet his eyes, all flushed skin and swollen lips and eyes so stupidly blue it hurts to look at them; and then Castiel actually smiles at him, and Dean realizes with dizzying clarity that little bursts of emotion like this are worth fighting to hold onto.

“Yes, Dean. I will make sure that we have a next time.”

Dean just nods, still trying to process the flood of stupid and helplessly sappy emotions through his body, and Castiel’s ridiculously sentimental expression softens even further as he traces a finger along Dean’s lip.

“And I promise will do everything in my power to keep you human, for as long as I possibly can.”

“Goddammit, stay out of my head –”

The words are cut off as Castiel carefully kisses him again, still pinning him against their stupid palm tree with incredible gentleness, and when soft fingers cup his cheeks as the angel slides their lips together with ridiculous care, Dean closes his eyes and gives up on arguing, his heart racing as he settles for just holding onto Castiel as tight as he possibly can. 

\- - -

When Dean pops into existence in the middle of Bobby’s kitchen not long afterward, still reeling from being kissed senseless on some godforsaken spit of land in the middle of the ocean, Sam jumps up so quickly from the table it looks like he almost hurts himself.

“Dean!” 

Dean barely stops a cringe at the worry in his brother’s voice, but he doesn’t have time to panic before long octopus-like arms are being wrapped around him, pulling him way too tight against his brother’s big sasquatch of a body. 

“Er, Sammy –”

“Are you alright?”

“Mpph.” His mouth is pressed into the flannel of his brother’s shoulder, and he struggles to get his face unsmothered long enough to speak, even as he silently clings to the relief he can feel written across his brother’s body. “Yeah, yeah – Cas put me back to normal. Sorry I was such a dick.”

The only reason he gets the apology out is because his face is still buried somewhere in Sam’s shoulder, and when his brother responds by squeezing him a little tighter, Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to drown under all the sentimentality in the room.

“Sam,” he manages to gasp, “Can’t breathe.”

His brother lets go without really looking at him, and then Sam’s pulling a couple of beers out of the fridge and sitting back down, carefully studying the table in front of him as he kicks out another chair towards where Dean is standing. It’s only when Dean mans up and sits down across from him, knowing that they really do need to have this conversation, that Sam manages to look up and give him a little smile.

“Good to have you back.”

“Guess I really freaked you out, huh.”

“You could say that.” There’s a slight hesitation as Sam drops his eyes back to the table for a moment, twisting the cap off his beer bottle and staring at it as though it holds the answers to all of life’s questions. “Is that what I was like? A colossal douche bag?”

Dean carefully schools his features as he thinks of the incident with the vampire – thinks of the time he just barely stopped Sam from gutting Bobby – and as his brother puppy dog eyes at him from across the table, Dean takes a swig of his drink and realizes – not for the first time – that learning everything he did while soulless would quite probably kill Sam. 

“Yeah, basically. Think I was more of a douche than you, though.”

“Well, that makes me feel marginally better.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, still hoping he’s achieving nonchalance – and then he freezes, his blood actually seizing up in his veins, because out of nowhere he’s suddenly remembered something that cannot possibly be true, something that he would never do, not even if he was a soulless monster –

“Oh, Jesus,” he whispers, his breath coming way too fast, “I wrapped by baby around a tree.”

Dean has had plenty of experience with being gutted, and this is exactly what it feels like – and oh god, he’s not going to cry, he’s not going to goddamn cry, but jesus fuck, how could he have ever done something so colossally stupid?

There’s a hand against his arm, and a hint of a smile around Sam’s lips. “Go look outside.”

Barely daring to process the words, Dean bolts to his feet and heads for the window, feeling like he’s moving in slow motion through a dream – and there, in the driveway, his beautiful baby is sitting without a scratch, her paintwork shining in the bright sunlight, and Dean’s knees feel way too weak beneath him as he turns back to his smirking brother.

“How –”

“Cas fixed her. Said you’d need her to be in one piece once he got you back.”

It’s too much, way too much feeling at the same time, everything burning him up from the inside out and making his eyes sting and his fingers tremble, and goddammit, Dean is _not going to cry_. 

“Dean.” Sam suddenly sounds incredibly concerned, and Dean’s not exactly sure what his own face looks like, but it can’t be good if his brother looks like he’s about to hug him again. “You – alright?”

Shaking his head and biting back the stupid itch behind his eyes, Dean turns back to the window and reminds himself to breathe, desperately trying to ignore the overwhelming relief that seems to be curling through his chest – but somehow, the idea of Castiel putting his baby back together is a reminder of exactly why emotions don’t always have to leave him gutted, and he feels his lips twitch reluctantly upwards, even as he still can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. 

“Cas, you feathery son of a bitch,” he manages to rasp, barely able to get the words out through the overwhelming gratitude that’s dancing across his skin, “If you’re listening, buddy, you’re _so_ getting lucky the next time I see you.”

Even the gagging noise from his brother can’t dampen Dean’s sudden contentment, and he closes his eyes as he clings to this feeling – because nothing that feels this good can ever last, and he knows that the demons inside him are just waiting to sneak up on him, now that he has no longer has any real defence against them – 

But for now, his little brother is alive and whole and human, and his angel has used his grace to knit Dean’s baby back together, the same way he once used his grace to fix Dean – and as long as they can continue scraping out these brief moments of happiness, then Dean will cling to his humanity with every fibre of his being, and pray that Sam and Cas are there with him every step of the way.


End file.
